


The Three-Packet Problem

by rightonmybins



Series: The Real Househusbands of Baker Street [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction what addiction, BAMF John Watson, Candy is dandy, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Sherlock needs some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:35:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightonmybins/pseuds/rightonmybins
Summary: Sherlock has given up smoking and nicotine patches. But now he has become addicted to the sugar high. John tries to break him of his habit, with predictable drama.Basically a Malteasers advert.





	The Three-Packet Problem

“John, I want some. Give me some.”  
“No.”  
“John, I NEED SOME.”  
“No, Sherlock.”  
“……Please?”  
“Forget it. You asked me not to, so I won’t. I’m just trying to help you.”  
“If I don’t get it I’ll do something desperate! GIVE ME SOME!”  
“Nope.”  
Sherlock dived behind a pile of books, flung the sofa cushions about, scattered papers far and wide. There were none to be found. Not one tiny solitary crunchy and delectable chocolate-covered sugar-filled Malteaser was left in all of 221B Baker Street.

 

Sherlock had given up the cigarettes long ago, but now that the nicotine patches irritated his skin, he had decided to try going cold turkey (again) and vanquish his dependence issues once and for all. John was so proud of him.  
But before very long Sherlock craved both the intense high and the relative calm that came with satisfying his addiction; now there were no soothing mood changes to anticipate, no flashes of substance-induced insight, and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

He tried coffee, but that presented its own problem when his bladder demanded to be relieved at inopportune moments. Besides, it was so difficult to obtain his preferred brand of hand-poured Sulawesi Toarco Toraja estate-farmed dark roast with its special notes of molasses, dried persimmon, and nutmeg topped off with a hint of citrus, while he was out and about in London. Starbucks was such rubbish.  
He tried energy drinks, but they upset his stomach. He tried drinking powdered chili pepper in water, popping ginseng capsules, rubbing his temples with lavender and mint balm. He tried Midol. He would have tried one of Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers but she refused to share.

Storming restlessly about the flat one day, he spied a small red paper packet … doubtless one of John’s little indulgences, he had such a sweet tooth. Hmm, Malteasers. An inane play on words, but they looked promising enough: chocolate spheroids of crisp honeycomb covered with a smooth chocolate shell. Sherlock popped one into his mouth. The first satisfying bite, breaking through the thick sweet crust into a little universe of crunchiness. Then he popped another. Then he gobbled the rest.

The sugar hit his bloodstream full-force and suffused him with the warming glow of a chemical high. He frantically searched the pockets of all John’s clothes until he found another packet, and he wolfed that down as well. Ahhhhh. Nearly as good as nicotine patches! Now if only he had one more …  
“Mrs. Hudson! Got any Malteasers?”  
“No, dear, I gave the last of mine to John when he was looking for something to nibble on. Would a sesame and fig bite do?”  
Obviously not.  
Sherlock speed-walked next door to the deli and snatched a packet from the display next to the cash register. Ahhhhh. He dropped his money on the counter and went home to conclude his experiment.

Thus John came home to find a serene and relaxed Sherlock lying on the sofa in his Thinking Position.  
“Well, I'm glad to see you’ve calmed down since this morning. Wait a minute, you haven’t…  
“No, John, I’m doing well.” He rolled up his sleeves to display his bare arms. No nicotine patches. John was satisfied. Sherlock was deviously content. 

But maintaining a sufficient reserve of his new drug was challenging. The deli next door was only good for emergencies, otherwise it would soon become obvious he was hooked on those little chocolate balls of nirvana. Asking John to buy them at Tesco would be a dead giveaway. And acquiring them piecemeal all over the city could not assure a constant daily supply. No, this had to be a wholesale operation.

So when a parade of plain brown Amazon boxes began arriving at 221B, Sherlock explained them away as “books”, “laboratory supplies” and once as a pick-and-mix assortment of carbuncles. Sherlock's closet was soon crammed with Malteasers: individual packs for on-the-go, multi-packs for out of town cases, quantity buckets for home use. Problem solved. All was well. Sherlock remained placid, John was grateful, and no one was the wiser.

Perhaps no one would ever have been the wiser, if their dodgy space heater had not overheated one cold morning and set the bedroom smoke alarm screeching. As a distinct burning smell filled the air, John leaped from bed in search of the portable fire extinguisher, stored in what was now Sherlock's Malteaser vault.  
Sherlock, hot on his heels, shouted: “John! NO!” 

Amid the screeching and smoking of the bedroom battlefield, BAMF Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers turned and fired on Sherlock.

“Sherlock, WHAT in the bloody hell is all this!” John thundered.  
“An experiment.” Well, it was….of a sort.  
“You’re addicted to SWEETS now?”  
“I'm not addicted. I can quit any time I want. It’s …. transitional.”  
John, stark naked and furious as a rabid stoat, began flinging Malteaser packets and boxes out of the closet. “This shite’ll kill you!”  
“Well, YOU eat them!”  
“ONE PACKET AT A TIME, Sherlock!” 

There was pouting. Days of pouting. John ruthlessly consigned Sherlock’s sugar-coated drug hoard to Mrs. Hudson’s bins, and heavy emotional weather descended on 221B. Sherlock was alternately manic and withdrawn, demanding Malteasers and sulking when denied. John largely ignored him and spent increasing amounts of time in his old room. He reproached himself for bringing those sweets into the flat in the first place – he should have realized he was tempting a known addict with a controlled substance.  
Swearing to deny his own indulgences, John set out to fetch home some healthier food. 

John clomped up the stairs with the shopping.  
“Sherlock, I’ve got some very nice-looking kale, and some carrots, and I thought soup might be…what are you doing.”  
Sherlock sat frozen in his chair, utterly failing to appear casual and looking like a squirrel with its cheeks stuffed full of nuts.  
John marched right over and took him by the chin.  
“What are you eating. Are those Malteasers? Spit them out RIGHT NOW.”  
“MmmnuhheeaaannngMmrrrrrs…” Sherlock protested.  
“Dammit Sherlock. You promised me you were quitting those fucking things. They’ll kill you! And think of your TEETH. Spit them out.” He held out his hand.  
Sherlock glared malevolently and gave a huge convulsive swallow, sending a tsunami of sugar into his system and depriving John of his annoying moral superiority.

John searched the flat for contraband every day because Sherlock backslid with regularity. The deli next door was under strict orders to not sell him any Malteasers, but that left thousands of other places for him to obtain his fix. The limit of John’s tolerance ruptured when he knocked over the Lucky Cat and found dozens of the little chocolate fiends stuffed inside.  
“Sherlock, you are going to have to choose: it’s either me, or a slow miserable death by malt extract, cocoa butter and glucose syrup.”

John returned from work the following day to an empty flat: Sherlock was nowhere to be found. As he walked through the kitchen he stepped on something hard and crunchy – one of those damned things lay crushed under his shoe. Well, at least that was one less for Sherlock.  
He swept it up and dropped it into the kitchen bin, and at the bottom he glimpsed a telltale crumpled Malteasers packet. He truly feared for Sherlock's mental health. And his tooth enamel.

Sherlock didn't come home. He wasn’t with Lestrade, he wasn’t with Molly (either standing over a morgue slab or lying on one). Mycroft was less than helpful. John slept in his chair, waiting and hoping and filled with remorse. He wondered whether Sherlock was holed up in some drug den of Malteaser-mainliners, or hanging around street corners trying to bribe primary schoolers to score him some sugar.

On the afternoon of the third day he heard Sherlock's step on the stairs and turned warily, dreading to see the human wreck now destroyed by the twin demons of his chemical and emotional addictions. John bitterly blamed himself for the part he’d played in bringing down his great love Sherlock Holmes, through his own foolish self-indulgence and incorrigible sweet tooth….

Sherlock walked in, threw his coat on the floor, gave John a dazzling smile and waltzed into the kitchen.  
“Tea, John? A couple of biscuits perhaps?”  
“Sherlock, I… are you all right?”  
“Yes, indeed, John, I am perfection in human form. Never have I felt better, more focused, more acute in my observations. No cigarettes, no nicotine patches, no sugar highs for me – I am now clean and free of foreign substances. You did me the greatest favor of my life by throwing away the poison that was destroying me. Thank you.”

John shook his head slowly. He was obviously hallucinating.  
“Sherlock, I don’t understand. How…?”  
“It’s very simple, John. After I detoxed I realized that I needed to replace my destructive habits with something more positive but equally as compelling. Something to occupy me while my brain is in overdrive, and yet allow me to maintain the razor-sharp focus I need for deduction. An energizing surge of adrenaline and endorphins coupled with a warm afterglow of well-being. Something positive, pleasurable, easily accessible and calorie-free. Something that won’t isolate me from you. In fact, you are an integral part of my new plan.”  
“And what might that be?” 

Sherlock shouted: “SEX!”

**Author's Note:**

> Midol: over the counter remedy for menstrual cramps  
> Stoat: A small but highly active and efficient weasel-like predator, which can be found all over the British Isles.  
> Sulawesi Toarco Toraja coffee is heaven on earth.


End file.
